American Agriculturist, May JO, 1924 
The Broad Highway-sy 
46'i 
Jeffery Farnol 
(For synopsis of preceding installments, see page 464) 
B UT Black George stood turned from 
me, with his fists clenched and his 
broad shoulders heaving oddly. 
‘'Peter,” said he, in his slow, heavy 
pay, “never clench ye fists to me. I 
can’t abide it. But oh, man, Peter! ’ow 
may I clasp ’anus wi’ a chap as I’ve tried 
to kill—I can’t do it, Peter. I were 
jealous of ’ee from the first—ye see, you 
beat me at th’ ’ammer-throwin’—an’ she 
took your part again’ me. Theer bean’t 
ao choice betwixt us for a maid like Prue 
-she alius was different from the likes o’ 
me, an’ any lass wi’ half an eye could see 
as you be a gentleman, ah! an’ a good un. 
An’ so, Peter—I be goin’ away—a sojer— 
p’r’aps it won’t be quite so sharp-like, 
arter a bit, but what’s to be—is to be. 
You an’ she was made for each other, so 
-don’t go to clench ye fists again’ me no 
more, Peter.” 
“Never again, George!” said I. 
“Unless,” he continued, as though 
struck by a bright idea, “unless you’m 
minded to ’ave a whack at me; if so be— 
why, tak’ it, Peter, an’ welcome. Ye see, 
I tried so ’ard to kill ’ee—an’ I thought I 
’ad. I thought ’twere for that as they 
took me, an’ so I broke my way out to 
come an’ say ‘good-by’ to Prue’s winder, 
an’ then I were goin’ back to give myself 
ip an’y let ’em hang me if they wanted 
to.” 
“Wereyou, George?” 
“Yes.” Here George turned to look at 
me, and looking, dropped his eyes, while up 
under his tanned skin there crept a painful, 
burning crimson. “Peter!” said he. 
“Yes, George?” 
“I got summ’at more to tell ’ee—sum- 
m’at as I never meant to tell to a soul; 
when you was down—lyin’ at my feet—” 
“Yes, George?” 
“I—I kicked ’ee—once!” 
“Did you, George?” 
“Ay—I—I’ were mad—mad wi’ rage 
an’ blood lust. Theer,” said he, straight¬ 
ening his shoulders, “leastways I can look 
’ee in the eye now that be off my mind.” 
“T THINK you more of a man than 
* ever,” said I. 
“Why, then, Peter—here’s my hand— 
if ye’ll tak’ it, an’ I—bid ye—good-by!” 
“I’ll take your hand gladly, George, 
but not to wish you good-by—rather, to 
bid you welcome home again.” 
“No,” he cried. “No—I couldn’t 
abide to see you an’—Prue—married, 
Peter.” 
“And you never will, George. Prue 
loves a stronger, a better man than I. 
And she has wept over him, George, and 
prayed over him, and has said that she 
would marry that man—ah! even if he 
came back with fetter-marks upon him— 
if be would only ask her.” 
“Oh, Peter!” cried George, seizing my 
shoulders in a mighty grip, “oh, man, 
Peter —you as knocked me down an’ as 
Hove for it—be this true?” 
“It is the truth!” said I, “and look!— 
to prove I am no liar—look!” and I 
pointed toward “The Bull.” 
George turned, and I felt his fingers 
tighten suddenly, for there, at the open 
boorway of the inn, with the early glory 
of the morning all about her, stood Prue. 
As we watched, she began to cross the 
road toward the smithy, with laggard 
s bp and drooping head. 
“Do you know where she is going, 
George? I can tyll you. She is going to 
.vour smithy to pray for you— Come!” 
^d I seized his arm. 
No, Peter, no—I durstn’t—I 
couldn't.” But he suffered me to lead him 
forward, nevertheless. 
And behold! Prue was kneeling before 
die anvil with her face hidden in her arms. 
Cu t all at once, she raised her head and 
saw him, and sprang to her feet with a 
glad cry. And George went to her, and 
kuclt at her feet, and, raising the hem of 
tor gown, stooped and kissed it. 
Oh, my sweet maid!” said he. “Oh, 
“dy sweet Prue!—I bean’t worthy—” 
But she caught the great shaggy head to 
her bosom and stifled it there. 
And in her face was a radiance—a hap¬ 
piness beyond words, and the man’s 
strong arms clung close about her. 
So I turned, and left them in paradise 
together. 
CHAPTER XXXVI 
WHICH SYMPATHIZES WITH A BRASS JACK, 
A BRACE OF CUTLASSES, AND DIVERS POTS 
AND PANS 
T FOUND the Ancient sunning himself 
A on the porch as he waited for his break¬ 
fast. 
“Peter,” said he, “I be tur’ble cold 
sometimes. It comes a-creepin’ on me all 
at once, even if I be sittin’ before a roarin’ 
fire or a-baskin’ in this, good, warm sun 
—grave-chills, I calls ’em. Ketches me by 
the ’eart they do; ye see I be that old, 
Peter, that old an’ wore out.” 
“But you’re a wonderful man for your 
age!” said I, clasping the shrivelled hand 
in mine, “and very lusty and strong—” 
“So strong as a bull I be, Peter!” he 
nodded readily, “but then these grave- 
chills ketches me oftener an’ oftener. 
Threescore years an’ ten, says the Bible, 
an’ I be years an’ years older than that. 
Oh! I sha’n’t be afeared to answer when 
I’m called, Peter. ‘’Ere I be, Lord!’ I’ll 
say. But oh, Peter! if I could be sure 
o’ that theer old rusty stapil bein’ took 
first, why then I’d go j’yful—j’yful, but— 
why theer be that old fule Amos— Lord! 
what a dodderin’ old fule ’e be, an’ theer 
be Job, an’ Dutton—they be cornin’ to 
plague me, Peter, I can feel it in my 
bones.” 
“Gaffer,” began Old Amos, “we be 
wishful to ax ’ee a question. Wheer be 
Black Jarge, which you ’avin’ gone to 
fetch ’im, an’ bring ’im ’ome again?” 
“Ah!” nodded Job, “them was your 
very words, ‘bring ’im ’ome again,’ says 
you—” 
“But you didn’t bring ’im ’ome,” con¬ 
tinued Old Amos, “leastways, not in the 
cart wi’ you. Dutton ’ere see you come 
drivin’ ’ome, but ’e didn’t see no Jarge 
along wi’ you. Speak up, James Dutton 
—you was a-leanin’ over your [front gate 
as Gaffer come drivin’ ’ome, wasn’t you, 
an’ you see Gaffer plain as plain, didn’t 
you?”. 
“W’ich, me wishin’ no offense, an’ no 
one objectin’—I did,” began the Apology, 
perspiring profusely as usual. 
“But you didn’t see no signs o’ Jarge, 
did ye?” demanded Old Amos. 
“W’ich, since you axes me, I makes so 
bold as to answer, no.” 
“Ye see, Gaffer,” pursued Amos, “if 
you didn’t bring Jarge back wi’ you— 
w’ich you said you would—the question 
we axes is—wheer be Jarge?” 
“Ah—wheer?” nodded Job gloomily. 
Here the Ancient was evidently at a loss, 
to cover which, he took a vast pinch of 
snuff. 
“ ’Ow be we to know as ’e bean’t pinin’ 
away in a dungeon cell wi’ irons on ’is 
legs, an’ strapped in a straitjacket 
an’—” 
Old Amos stopped, open-mouthed and 
staring, for out from the gloom of the 
smithy issued Black George himself, with 
Prue upon his arm. The Ancient, dis¬ 
sembling his vast surprise, dealt the lid 
of his snuff-box two loud, triumphant 
knocks. 
“Peter,” said he, rising stiffly, “Peter, 
lad, I were beginnin’ to think as Jarge 
were never coinin’ in to breakfus’ at all.” 
Saying which, he turned his back upon 
his discomfited tormentors, and led me 
into the kitchen of the inn. 
A ND there were the white-capped maids 
HA setting forth a breakfast as only 
such a kitchen could produce. And, 
presently, there was Prue herself, with 
George hanging back, something shame¬ 
faced, till the Ancient had hobbled forward 
to give him welcome. And there was 
honest Simon, all wonderment and hearty 
greeting. And (last, but by no means 
least) there were the battered cutlasses, 
the brass jack, and the glittering pots 
and pans—glittering and gleaming and 
twinkling a greeting likewise, and with 
all their might. 
Ah! but they little guessed why‘Prue’s 
eyes were so shy and sweet, or why the 
color came and went in-her pretty cheeks; 
little they guessed why this golden-haired 
giant trod so lightly, and held his tall head 
so very high—little they dreamed of the 
situation as yet; had they done so, surely 
they must, one and all, have fallen upon 
that curly, golden head and buried it 
beneath their gleaming, glittering, twin¬ 
kling jealousy. 
Yes, truly, what a meal that was, and 
how the Ancient chuckled, and dug me 
with one bony elbow and George with the 
other, and chuckled again till he choked, 
and choked till he gasped, and gasped till 
he had us all upon our feet, then de¬ 
manded indignantly why we couldn’t let 
him “enj’y hisself in peace.” 
And now, when the meal was nearly 
over, he suddenly took it into his head 
that Prue didn’t love George as she should 
and nothing would content him but that 
she must kiss him then and there. 
“An’ not on the forr’ud, mind—nor on 
the cheek, but on the mouth, my lass!” 
And now, who so shy and blushing as 
Prue, Black George very evidently clasp¬ 
ing her hand under the table, and bidding 
Last week’s puzzle had fourteen ducks. Next week we will print the answer to 
this one. Also, as it is the last of the Blot-Outs, we will start a fascinating new 
series, the Daffydilly Dots, which every member of the family will want to try. 
her never to mind—as he was content, 
and never to put herself out over such as 
him. Whereupon Mistress Prue must 
needs turn, and taking his head between 
her hands, kissed him—not once, or twice, 
but three times. 
O gleaming Cutlasses! O great Brass 
Jack and glittering Pots and Pans! can ye 
any longer gleam and glitter and twinkle 
indoubt? Alas! I trow not. Therefore it 
is only natural and to be expected that 
beneath your outward polish lurk black 
and bitter feelings against this curly- 
headed giant, and a bloodthirsty desire 
for vengeance. If so, then one and all of 
you have, at least, the good feeling not to 
show it, a behavior worthy of gentlemen— 
what do I say?—of gentlemen?—fie! 
rather let it be said—of pots and pans. 
CHAPTER XXXVII 
THE PREACHER 
I T is a wise and (to some extent) a true 
saying, that hard work is an antidote 
to sorrow, but when the labor is over and 
done, and the weary worker goes forth 
into the quiet evening—how then? For 
sooner or later, comes the still hour when 
Memory rushes in upon us again, and 
Sorrow and Remorse sit on either hand. 
A week dragged by, a restless fever of 
nights and days. I hungered for the 
sound of Charmian’s voice, for the quick, 
light fall of her foot, for the least touch 
of her hand. I became more and more 
possessed of a morbid fancy that she 
might be existing near by—could I but 
find her; that she had passed along the 
road only a little while before me, or, at 
this very moment, might be within sight, 
were I but quick enough. 
But when I had reluctantly bidden 
George “good night,” and set out along 
lanes full of the fragrant dusk of evening; 
when, reaching the Hollow, I followed 
that leafy path beside the brook, which 
she and I had so often trodden together; 
when I sat in my gloomy, disordered cot¬ 
tage—then, indeed, my loneliness was 
well-nigh more than I could bear. 
It was at this time, too, that I began to 
be haunted by the thing above the door—• 
the rusty staple upon which a man had 
choked out his wretched life sixty and six 
years ago. Thus I would sit, chin in hand, 
staring up at this staple until the light 
failed, and sometimes, in the dead of 
night, I would steal softly there to touch 
it with my finger. 
Looking back on all this, it seems that 
I came very near losing my reason, for I 
had then by no means recovered from 
Black George’s fist. 
My sleep, too, was often broken and 
troubled with wild dreams, so that rising, 
I would sit before the empty hearth, a 
candle guttering at my elbow, and think 
of Charmian until I would fancy I heard 
the rustle of her garments behind me, and 
start up, trembling and breathless. Often 
and often her soft laugh stole to me in the 
gurgle of the brook, and she would call, to 
me in the deep night silences in a voice 
very sweet, and faint, and far away. 
Then I would plunge out into the dark, 
and lift my hands to the stars and journey 
on through a desolate world, to return 
with the dawn, weary and despondent. 
It was after one of these wild night 
expeditions that I sat beneath a tree, 
watching the sunrise. And yet I think 
I must have dozed, for I was startled by 
a voice close above me, and, glancing up, 
I recognized the little Preacher. As our 
eyes met he immediately took the pipe 
from his lips, and made as though to cram 
it into his pocket. 
“Though, indeed, it is empty!” he ex¬ 
plained, as though I had spoken. “Old 
habits cling to one, young sir, and my 
pipe, here, has been the friend of my sol¬ 
itude these many years, and I can not 
bear to turn my back upon it yet, so I 
carry it with me still, and sometimes, 
when at all thoughtful, I find it between 
(Continued on ^ 
